You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Seventeen

Zayn:

The following Saturday, I was off work and debating my options on how to spend the day.

The sounds of expert piano playing drifted on the air from the family room, and I remembered that Harry spent Saturdays with Marcel.

I drifted toward the family room too. I didn’t want to interrupt the brothers, but goddamn, Harry was insanely talented. I couldn’t not listen but leaned against the door as he finished a highly complicated piece I didn’t recognize.

He belongs on the stage.

“Mr. Malik!”

I gave a jolt to see Marcel beaming at the floor but facing my direction. Harry arched a brow at me, the faintest flicker of amusement in his emerald green eyes.

Shit.

Marcel swept his hands to indicate the room. “Please, join us, my good man.”

“No, no I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. . .”

“You’re not interrupting, is he, brother dearest?”

Harry and I held gazes for a second, then he turned back to the piano. “No. He’s not.”

“And since you’re here. . .” Marcel said. “No time like the present, grab the bull by the horns and so forth.”

He drew close to me without touching and gestured grandly at the piano. “If you please, sir. Your piano lesson awaits.”

Harry swung around. “Come again?”

“The other day, Mr. Malik had hinted to me that he was rusty at the piano,” Marcel said, “and then his performance left no doubt.”

I snorted a laugh, but Harry frowned.

“Don’t be rude,” he said to his brother, then turned to me, his expression softening. “You played for Marcy?”

“I don’t think ‘played’ is the exact word,” I said. “I banged on the keys a little.”

Marcel steepled his fingers together. “Ergo, a lesson or two is in order?”

Harry glared at his brother, which made me grin.

“I’m sure Harry has better things to do than give piano lessons to a hopeless case like me.”

“My dear brother has left our Saturday activities to my discretion,” Marcel said.

“And it is my sincerest wish that he
shares his gift with you, Mr. Malik.”

I coughed and felt the back of my neck redden. Silence fell, and I was sure Harry was going to kick me out of the room. But for a split second he looked almost shy again, as he had in the car the other day.

“Well?” he said finally.

“Well. . . what?”

“You heard the man.” He jerked his chin at
his brother.

“Saturdays are up to him. If you want to play. . .”

“I don’t want to intrude. . .”

“You’re not, but if you don’t want to—”

“My word, but there is quite a lot of dilly-dallying,” Marcel remarked.

Harry and I exchanged glances, and we both chuckled.

“It’s not going to be pretty,” I said,“but I’m game if you are.”

Harry surrendered the bench and I felt a twinge of disappointment that I wasn’t going to be sitting next to him.